


If I Wasn't Thirsty, Would You Still Fill My Cup?

by Caswillsaveme



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: A little self harm, Have fun reading this suicide inducing piece of trash, It's inspired by The Kids Aren't Alright, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), also a couple triggers, i wrote this at 4 am, it's actually, though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7188041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caswillsaveme/pseuds/Caswillsaveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always late nights that bring along thoughts like these. Sometimes, not even being on the edge can scare you from wanting to jump.</p><p>"And I still feel that rush in my veins. It twists my head just a bit to think. All those people in those old photographs I've seen are dead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Wasn't Thirsty, Would You Still Fill My Cup?

He could imagine if he tried hard enough, what it felt like to stop breathing and to start dying. He thought, it must be like a flower in bloom. Something new growing in the place of something old. Death from the end of life and so on, such as life goes. From blossom, to dust, just as he had always been told. He was in a cold room, his head clouded with these thoughts. The mirror reflected back to him a picture of growing sadness and sleeploss. Deep sunken sockets and an unshaven beard threatened his eyes. His hallowed cheeks and scarred wrists being highlighted with every glance he took to see who was starring back from the other side, but it was impossible for it to be anyone but himself. He had been staring there for almost a half hour, looking to find some shred of light in what seemed like an uncomfortably quiet and dark night. The alarm clock on the cheap hotel bedside table had shone ruby red with the time 4:00 AM, before he had entered the grimmy bathroom. Quietly, he turned on the silver faucet so that cold water ran, just enough to clean off the blood from his finger tips and the floor that surrounded the sink. While he had been watching his sleepless eyes and dark unclean hair in the mirror, he had seen himself drag a silver razor across the soft skin of his wrist. It had stung, but he thought of it like a bee, bringing pollen to the flower in bloom, to keep it alive. To make sure it would continue to grow. To preserve it.

The blood flow was beginning to slow down and start scabbing up so he wrapped a light bandage around the cuts to keep them from reopenning and pouring out onto the floor. The mirror mocked him, it glowed with ruby accents. He looked away. The world felt as if no color but red was possible to be seen. His eyes traced himself in the shining mirror again as he twisted the faucet to turn it off. It seemed almost impossible for anyone to look more weak and useless, than the boy staring back at him through the mirror. His skin glowed with a pale olive tone, and the tattoos on his body looked as if they were burns from a terrible fire. The lights in the grey bathroom made his head hurt and his eyes feel dry. He grabbed a pill bottle from his bag he had thrown on the floor of the bathroom, and choked back around six of whatever kind of pills he had found first. He needed something to get rid of the left over bees and pollen in his system. Something to numb the low humming that had been filling his ears since him and the rest of the boys had packed up their gear for the night, and left the gig to get to a cheap hotel and get an atleast half-decent night sleep. They had actually scraped together enough money from the past few gigs to get two rooms for the night, so they had split up the rooms in pairs of two. Andy and Joe had shuffled into the room across the lot from them and said their goodnights.

He took a couple more pills for good measure, and wiped away any blood left over in the area. His headache seemed to be slipping away, and a numb feeling was setting in. Hair stuck up in weird directions, he looked back at himself in the mirror one more time, before scowling and flipping the light switch off. On his way out of the bathroom, he caught sight of Patrick lying in bed. He looked at the way that his whole body curled into itself, and Patrick looked a million times more relax than when he was awake. His headache came back from the heavy cloud of guilt swirling around him in the prescence of his closest friend. He had always drug Patrick down, he wondered why he would even keep him around still. All it seemed he did was feel sick to his stomach and make everyone uncomfortable. A low snore rang through the small room, and he turned to face the open curtains to a small outside balcony, that- once they had gotten settled in the room- had caught Patricks eye. He hadn't stayed awake long enough to go out onto it with him, but the door was left open. He walked toward the cold night air, suddenly cautious of how little he was wearing, only boxers and a light t-shirt. He didn't feel like it was worth it to grab his jacket since his head was slowly becoming hazier and hazier, and he walked out onto the stone balcony. The air was crisp and stung his nose, the fall season wasn't very forgiving on nights like that in the upper part of Illinois. The edge of the balcony was lined in a series of metal poles in a gate formation with just enough room between each pole to push your leg through it. He sat down in the left corner of the metal gate pressing himself in between the hotels outside wall and the metal poles of the gate. Looking back at the room door, he thought that for a second he saw Patrick stir in the bed, through the open door and flowing curtains. Shaking his head, he assumes the drugs must have been beginning to kick in.

The wall dug into his back, but he didn't mind. He wanted to feel it, to feel anything. To get away, somewhere. He thought about how weird that was, he was away. He had left home, and school, and all of his other friends. Despite having what he had always wanted, he wanted to get out of here. He turned back, looking over at Patrick through the door again. His chest was rising and falling slowly, and his hat was knocked off onto the floor. Patrick looked alive, he looked happy, and calm, and everything that he had wanted. He looked away toward the city, past the cold stone balcony with the steel gate. He wanted to be past himself too, past the weak unimportant boy who had become too much for everyone. His body was pressed up against the steel gate, and he kicked his leg that hung through the steel bars of the balcony. A car drove by, its headlights shining down the empty back road that lead into the back of the hotel. He could see a city just past a bundle of trees that clumped over the distant view. The city looked like a sky full of stars, each shining light reflecting every lonely wanderer. The cars that past by like comits, carrying passengers and ashes of memories and past lives. He looked out overhead, extending his neck to listen to the sound of the city, and of the dust flowing through the trees. Low howling whistled in every direction. Even as he sat connected to the whole world through that steel gate, and through the city, and through the stars.

He was alone.

The cold air stung his body now more than ever, but he did not move. He didn't think it was worth it. The city was there, and if he looked closer to him, the hard ground layed right there. Right under where he sat, just a few floors down. All the thoughts in his head pushed him to consider it. He had taken his pills, he had even taken more pills. But it seemed like a good out. The high balcony that Patrick had liked, the city lights shining from miles away, the cold night, the pills. He grabbed the top of the steel gate and hauled himself up. He thought about how he could get away. His fingers brushed over the bandages that he had wrapped his cuts in. He felt like an idiot, but he had to move. He was tired of dragging everyone down. He was tired of hurting everyone he touched. He was tired of dying slowly. He was tired. And the cement called on him from floors below. He pressed himself against the gate, and began to lift himself to get over it. He was weak, but he was ready to stop being tired. He was ready to leave. To die, and bloom out a flower. As he fussed to climb the gate, he heard a soft noise from behind him. He stared out into the darkness of the distant trees.

"Pete."

He didn't want to turn around, but he knew that it'd be worse to jump with Patrick watching, than to jump at all. He swung his legs back onto the concrete balcony and gripped tightly to the fence. His knuckles started turning white with the stress. He could hear Patrick inching foreward toward him, he could hear the soft footsteps, and he could see the littles whisps of cold breathe floating past him. Pete turned around to see Patrick behind him, his hair was mussed up and his hat sat sloppily on top of his head. Patrick looked scared, or maybe disappointed? Pete couldn't tell. He took another small step foreward, almost as if he was afraid that if he touched Pete, he would break.

"Patrick." Pete breathed out. He hadn't realized he was holding his breathe until that moment. He wanted to say something, to explain himself. He wanted to tell Patrick about the bandages, and the bloody bathroom, and the pills, and the city, and the way he had heard the ground below screaming his name louder than any kid that had ever attended their concerts. But he didn't; he stood there and looked foreward at the young boy, his bestfriend, who stood in the cold night in just a hat and some pajamas. Just to see what was wrong with him. What was wrong with Pete? He had never been able to figure that out, and he doubted that Patrick truly understood either. "Why are you awake?" Pete asked Patrick, he could feel his face draining of color.

"I saw you come out of the bathroom, and I assumed you would go back to bed, or ask me to sing for you, or say something. But instead you just came out here, and I saw you looking over the railing, and-and getting up, over it...-and...." Patrick moved his hand to his face and looked down. He tugged on the front of his hat. 

Petes eyes widened, and he backed up into the spot he had sat before, squished between the wall and the gate. He brought his knees up to his chin, and buried his head in a mixture of his shirt and his lap. "I don't feel good Trick." he said bringing his head up to look into his eyes, to see what he thought about such a worthless friend. He expected Patrick to say something, to yell at him for being stupid, to tell him he was out of the band, to say he was never his friend. He had expected Patrick to be angry. But he just stood there, looking down at Pete, who looked right back up.

"I don't want you to leave me." Patrick said. His body was shivering in the cold air, and his face was beginning to freeze and become red tinted. "Is that what you want, because if you left me....Pete."

"Pete."

He could feel warm tears in the corners of his eyes, and his stomach flipped everytime Patrick said his name. His name. "Are you my bestfriend?" Pete said in almost a whisper. The air was quiet, and the wind flowed through the balcony. Patrick looked shocked, and puzzled. He sat down on the floor across from Pete. The concrete of the balcony was like ice, but he sat against the bars of the gate on the opposite side from Pete. He just sat down, mirroring Pete. The sky was clear, the air was heavy.

"Of course I am, Pete." Patrick said back. He looked out over the empty back lot of the hotel, all the way to the sparkling city.

"No, Patrick you have to fucking mean it." Pete said back, he crawled over to him and grabbed his wrist. Patrick looked back up at Pete. Though he was five years older than him, Pete was younger in so many ways. He sat crossed legged in front of Patrick, and placed both of his hands out. He looked down at them, and back up to Pete, even in such little light Pete could see the gold specks of Patricks eyes. "Pete"

"I fucking mean it. You're my bestfriend. Pete, you're my best friend." He said to the tattooed boy who sat across from him. He slipped his cold hands into the inviting hands that lay on his lap. Patrick turned Pete over and pulled him back to hold him, safely in his lap with Petes back on his chest and his head leaning on his shoulder. He could feel Petes uneven breathing begin to slow down to a steady flow. Patrick stroked Petes head, pushing his fingers lightly through his hair. They sat there, on the balcony in the middle of the night, squished in between the wall and the steel gate, looking out over the dark trees and the busy city in the distance. Both boys in sitting in the cold in barely any clothes, but they were warm. Pete felt his head clearing up. 

Patrick began to sing softly, in almost a whisper. The air held the music. Pete felt his eyes drooping, and he could tell that it wasn't from the pills. Patrick was there with him, singing to him, and only him. Holding him, despite the cold and how shitty he was, Patrick was there with Pete. The soft music from Patrick was louder than any ground could scream, or any razor could beg. And Pete felt safe.

Patrick lulled out,"When it rains it pours."

"Stay thirsty like before."

"Don't you know that the kids aren't alright?"

And for once Pete knew that Patrick was singing it about him.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a short one, but it's just something I felt I had to write and empty from my mind. I did this thing where I didn't reference the fact that it was Pete until Patrick had called out for him using his name to kind of symbolize Petes feelings and unimportance. Idk, it was just an idea I had. I started writing this more than ten days ago and didn't finish it til today, so. Thanks for reading!
> 
> ( Listen to the song, it's my favorite from that album ( American Beauty/American Psycho)- The Kids Aren't Alright also inspired by My Heart Will Always Be the B-Side to My Tongue)


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